


it's just medicine

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras Has Feelings, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Multi, bahorel is literally a teddy bear, combeferre is trying, enjolras has had a rough past, enjolras is not okay, i tried to fit all of the h/c prompts into one tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8332957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: Enjolras hides an injury. Because that always ends well.





	

**Author's Note:**

> some blood and stuff; also E isn't in a great place. Be warned. More notes at the end.

They’ve been running for too long, but it’s only just safe to slow down to a walk. Enjolras is ahead, and the night hides his pale face perfectly. Now that he’s slowed, though, it takes a matter of seconds before the the other two figures catch up. 

“Hey. I think we’re good,” Bahorel says breathlessly, his head going to his knees. 

“Yeah. We should get to Combeferre’s. We can’t stay at our place tonight,” Feuilly says, and Bahorel swears. 

“He ain’t there. Date night,” he reminds them all, and Enjolras can’t help but let out a breath of relief. He can’t face either of them right now. 

“Someone will be there. The entire trio is probably home.” Bahorel has started walking again, and Enjolras tries his best to walk steadily back to the front. If he can just make it there… it’ll be okay. 

“Then let’s just go. We don’t want to be out here longer than we have to,” Enjolras says curtly. There’s something just slightly off about the way he’s breathing, though.

“Whoah, dude. Chill. We just ran like two miles,” Feuilly tries to argue, but Enjolras is already walking. “I know them. They’re not gonna pop out from behind a dumpster or something.” 

“What was that even about? I mean, I certainly don’t mind a good fight, and Enjolras didn’t seem to care, but they had _knives_ , Feuilly.” Bahorel’s finally got his breathing under control, and even in the dark of the alley Feuilly can see the creases above his brow. 

“They think I owe them money from a few years back. It’s nothing. Well, it is now. Thanks to you.” Feuilly’s voice is warm. “Don’t think we would’ve gotten away that easily if Enjolras hadn’t jumped in, though.” 

Bahorel wishes he were surprised by that, but he knows Enjolras, so he knows he’s like a fucking guard dog when it comes to them. It doesn’t matter if he’s half the size, he’ll take on anyone and anything that’s hinting at hurting either of his roommates. There’s a voice, a voice that’s definitely Combeferre, reminding him why. Enjolras thinks he’s owes them a debt, for getting him off the streets and into a permanent residence. Honestly, Bahorel thinks Enjolras is way overstating it. He had a friend (and a sparring partner) who was in a rough spot and they had a couch—he would have just asked him (lord knows he forced dinner on Enjolras enough) but the kid was stubborn so Bahorel may or may not have drugged his coffee one night and announced he was living there from that point on. 

“Yeah, dude. You okay? You had like four on you at one point,” Feuilly remembers, but Enjolras just shrugs him off.

“Just a couple of bruises. Let’s just get to the castle and figure it out from there.” There’s an edge to Enjolras’s voice that Bahorel can’t quite decipher, but he uses their nickname for the fucking huge flat shared by five of their friends, so he’s probably okay. 

They walk in silence, Enjolras in front and Feuilly and Bahorel behind. After a while, they notice that Enjolras’s breathing hasn’t evened out, and he’s starting to stumble, hands periodically searching for walls at his unsteadiest moments. 

“Enjolras—“ Bahorel starts, because something is obviously wrong, but Feuilly’s hand on his shoulder stops the concerned words before they ever leave his mouth. 

“Don’t push,” he whispers, rubbing the hat currently covering the mop of fiery red hair. “If he needs help, he’ll ask.” 

That’s bullshit, and Feuilly knows it. Hell, anyone who’s ever met Enjolras knows it. The kid was ‘Ferre and Courf’s best friend since diapers and they didn’t know jack about what happened to Enjolras after they graduated from that fucking hellhole of a military academy. They didn’t know he was even fucking alive until Bahorel and Feuilly befriended their favorite angry barista who happened to box at their gym. The point is, when Enjolras is hit with a shitstorm, he buries his head under the sand and tries to push through it alone. 

But they’re still at least ten minutes away from their friends’ apartment, and Enjolras’s stumbling is becoming increasingly worse. Instinctively, Feuilly’s hands catch Enjolras at his elbows whenever it gets particularly bad. The entire time, Bahorel is on the verge of asking _What’s wrong, E? Are you okay? Do you need help?_ , but the words never quite make it out of his throat. It feels like the amount of unsaid words are pushing his lungs against his ribs, and it’s making breathing an effort. That’s nothing compared to Enjolras—in the dead, stillness of night, all Bahorel can hear is how Enjolras’s breaths rattle and rasp and shake. Feuilly imagines that if he grabs Enjolras’s hands, they’ll be shaking uncontrollably like they always do when he’s hiding something. 

For all of the worried glances Feuilly and Bahorel share, they’ve decided to just wait for the inevitable. Confronting Enjolras would likely make him run, and then he’d be alone when whatever is going on overrides his brain. 

The inevitable comes much earlier than expected. Without warning, Enjolras stumbles to the left, his hands grasping at the side of a building as his knees crumple. 

“Feuilly,” Enjolras murmurs, the words barely escaping his chapped lips, but then his eyes roll back in his head, and falls straight into Feuilly. Carefully, gently, Feuilly lowers him to the ground, supporting his friend’s head. That’s when the blood stain on Enjolras’s dark shirt suddenly becomes terrifyingly obvious. 

“Hey, stay with me. Wake up, E. I’m right here. Stay with me,” Feuilly urges, hands going to Enjolras’s pale face. But the words fall flat, and it’s only when Bahorel abruptly pushes down on the wound, trying to keep Enjolras from bleeding out, that Enjolras wakes. 

“‘M fine. Don’ worry. Don’ call ‘Ferre,” he says, slurring his words as he bucks upward against the pain, but Feuilly’s hands are firmly holding Enjolras against the ground. 

“Stay the fuck down, dude. Are you crazy?” Bahorel says, running a hand through Enjolras’s sweaty curls. “We’ve got to take care of this.” 

“It’s fine. I was shot there before.” Enjolras says it with blunt honesty, seemingly unaware that he’s spilling truth he’s carefully hidden since he’s met Bahorel. 

“That’s the opposite of fine, E.” Bahorel really needs to talk to Enjolras about his fucked-up perception of common words like “fine”, “okay”, and “fucking insane.” 

“Agree to disagree, am I right?” It’s almost impossible to tell what Enjolras is saying, he’s slurring the words so badly. 

“Two to one, idiot. Stay down,” Feuilly gets out. His heart is racing with how fucking worried he is for Enjolras, and they need to come up with a plan, fast. Enjolras’s stubbornness be damned. While he searches his brain for something, _anything_ , that would work, Feuilly tries to dab the sweat off of Enjolras’s furrowed brow. 

“We’re going to get you to Joly, okay? It’s going to be okay. You just gotta stay awake, E. You hear that? No going to sleep.” Bahorel’s words are firm, and they’re said as he’s taking off his giant flannel. Efficiently, he wraps it as tightly as he can around the wound; Enjolras’s bloody fingers scramble for something safe, and Feuilly grips the hand tightly, trying to keep Enjolras from flinching and squirming with pain. Enjolras grips back, his knuckles white only seconds after Feuilly’s warm, calloused hands find his own. 

“It ‘urts,” Enjolras moans, every breath feeling like it’s lava filling his lungs instead of oxygen. 

That’s when things stop making sense for a while. Enjolras feels a flash of agony before it’s like he’s floating, like someone’s carrying him. There are voices, calm voices that are desperately trying to keep Enjolras from slipping away, but it’s hard when all he feels is the weightlessness of his own being and his hands won’t stop shaking and he’s dizzy from the pain of breathing and he’s suddenly so cold. 

“Don’ call ‘Ferre,” Enjolras mumbles. He knows he’s gonna be in trouble, and he’s too tired to deal with it. 

He relaxes into what feels like an ocean, like he’s floating with his face half-above the surface. The water seems to wash the pain away.

:: ::

Joly is just finishing the dishes when there’s a frantic knocking at the door.

“Joly! Open up!” Immediately, Joly is running towards the door. That’s Bahorel’s voice, and he sounds panicked. When it opens, the first thing Joly knows is that the air smells like iron. Then he sees Bahorel, who’s carrying a barely-conscious Enjolras. 

“Put him on the floor by the couch. There’s a sheet down,” Joly orders, rushing to find his medical bag. By the time he finds it, the noise has drawn Bossuet and Musichetta from their bedroom, and they’re kneeling by Enjolras. His hand finds Feuilly’s again, and it’s clear he’s not letting go anytime soon. 

“What happened?” Joly asks, his tone clinical as he starts cutting off Enjolras’s shirt, trying to gain access to the wound. 

“There was a fight. We didn’t know,” Bahorel gets out. “He was stabbed.” 

Right as Joly starts trying to peel the fabric that’s stuck away from the wound, Enjolras reemerges with a cross between a groan and a cry of pain. 

“Not the best time, E,” Feuilly says, as Enjolras tenses against the pain. Joly hasn’t stopped, and now he’s poking around near the large hole, but it’s hard with the amount of scar tissue. 

“Wha’s happ’n’?” Enjolras blinks, fighting his eyelids to keep them open. “Joly, ‘m fine.” 

“What’s this scarring from, E?” Enjolras balks a little at Joly’s direct tone. 

“Don’ call him,” is all Enjolras says, so Bahorel jumps in.

“He said he was shot there before. And he’s been pretty insistent that we don’t call Combeferre or Courfeyrac,” he translates, his hands gently holding Enjolras’s head but ready to immobilize him if he needs to. 

“That’s going to be a problem,” Joly mutters.

“We’re calling them, though, right? You need another doctor to help,” Musichetta says. There’s silence. “We’re not actually listening to him, are we?” 

“He doesn’t want to call them,” Feuilly says. “He has to have a reason.” 

“He knows he fucked up, and he doesn’t want them to be mad. But they have a right to know, and he’s going to need their help.” Musichetta’s voice is calm, but firm. “I’m going to call them.” 

“No!” Enjolras is fighting, now, eyes wild and unseeing as he wiggles and pushes against both Joly and Bahorel’s hands. His breathing is virtually nonexistent. 

“Breathe, E. Relax,” Bahorel says, and he just keeps repeating it until Enjolras’s breathing is back to a non-dangerous level and his muscles have melted back into the floor. “Musichetta, don’t.” It takes a painfully long amount of time before Enjolras’s eyes start to flutter closed. 

“If he gets worse, I will call,” Joly says, trying to keep his voice low. For now, he has to keep Enjolras from flipping out because he _has_ to disinfect this before it gets worse. And if that includes not calling the two people who could keep Enjolras feeling safe no matter what he’s aware of at any given moment, then he guesses that’s the way it’s going to be. 

“Fine,” Musichetta relents, dropping down to Joly’s side. “What do you need?” 

“Saline solution, suture kit, bandages, saran wrap. Top shelf of the cupboard,” he says, and Enjolras groans in response to the noise. 

“It’s fine, Jolllly,” he gets out sloppily, but when Joly pokes at the wound again, Enjolras’s breath hitches. 

“I’m still going to disinfect the wound, buddy. Good try,” Joly says, his hand briefly resting on Enjolras’s shoulder as the blond tries to turn his head to the side to catalog what’s going on. Unsurprising to Joly, he’s largely unsuccessful; he’s weak from blood loss and the stress of everything, which is going to be Joly’s only saving grace right now. 

“What do we do?” Feuilly asks, though his hand is now trapped again in Enjolras’s grip. 

“Bahorel, you get his head. Feuilly, I guess you’ve got that arm… Chetta can get his legs and Bossuet will get his other arm. It’s going to hurt and it’s going to be hard to hold him down but you cannot let him move or these stitches are going to be bad.” Joly’s voice is direct, as everyone takes their places.

“It’ll be okay. You can squeeze my hand as hard as you want. Just keep breathing,” Feuilly says when Enjolras’s breath shortens even more. He’s bracing himself. 

Just as Joly is about to start sanitizing the wound, the door opens. 

“I hope there’s still pad thai—wait, the fuck?” It’s Grantaire. “Oh my god is that Enjolras?” 

In an instant, he’s by the blond’s side, his eyes blown wide. 

“Great timing, R,” Joly grits out. But then he looks at Enjolras, who’s looking in amazement at Grantaire. 

“I don’ think I can cover your shif’ t’m’row,” he says. 

“Oh my fucking god. It’s okay.” Grantaire’s voice is incredulous, but he’s taken Bossuet’s place at his other hand. 

“Okay. R, you can’t let him up. Boss, can you make up the sofa bed? We’re going to need it after this.” After that, Joly starts pouring. 

The sound Enjolras makes can’t be human. He’s trying to move away from the pain, pushing against hands and his back arching off of the floor. He can’t form words around the blinding amount of pain, but he’s trying so hard not to scream that the result is garbled, animalistic moans that seem to shatter Bahorel’s heart.

“Hey, you’re doing great. It’s almost over.” Grantaire is clutching Enjolras’s hand tight in his own, leaning so that Enjolras’s face, which is trying to twist against Bahorel’s hold, is looking right at his own. “Look at me, E. Look at me and breathe.” 

“Hurts.” When Enjolras’s eyes finally meet Grantaire’s own dark, deep ones, they’re fractured with pain. His breaths are almost a wheeze, now. “R, it hurts.” 

“I know, I know. Breathe with me.” Slowly, the noises subside. Enjolras’s eyes are still stubbornly open, but they’re half-lidded. 

“There. That’ll take care of it for now.” Joly’s hands are coated in red, but the wound is covered and wrapped, now. 

“Why aren’t we taking him to a hospital?” Grantaire asks, but the edge in is voice is cancelled out by the tender way he’s rubbing circles on Enjolras’s hand. “No offense, Joly, but this isn’t a permanent fix.” 

“He doesn’t have insurance.” This time, the words are from Feuilly. “And I don’t really think he likes them too much.” 

“We should get him cleaned up,” Bahorel says. “Get him comfortable, make sure no major problems arise, and if it’s fine we don’t take him. He really can’t afford it, R.” 

“Then we should call Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They’ll be home soon, anyway,” Grantaire argues. “Get another doctor to look at it.” 

“No.” Enjolras groans and slurs the word more than actually pronounces it, but once again he’s fighting to sit up. “Don’ call them.” 

“Why?” Musichetta’s question is more of a challenge, and Enjolras’s wild eyes struggle to find the source of the question. Musichetta just squeezes his knee, and slowly his eyes move from his knee up to her face. Her soft smile doesn’t match the directness of her words, and Enjolras feels his lips move into what he thinks is an attempt at mirroring her lips. 

“Hey,” he says, and she returns with a smile that’s etched with concern. “They’re gonna be mad if they know. ’N worried. Should be happy.” Musichetta feels her heart strings pull, just a little bit. Enjolras really doesn’t get it; yeah, Combeferre and Combeferre were fine before Bahorel and Feuilly introduced them to their new roommate, but they weren’t _happy_ , at least not like they were after. Somehow, after years and years of never hearing anything, after two degrees and a proposal and a lot of time, they never quite let the idea of Enjolras go. Enjolras doesn’t know that; all Enjolras knows is that they worry about him (How could they not? They still don’t know what happened—they think he might have ended up deployed at one point, but there’s nothing concrete to support or deny it—and Enjolras is… )

“You’re an idiot,” Grantaire says. 

“Let’s get the idiot set up so that he can _rest_ ,” Joly decides. “Bahorel, can you—“ 

“You got it, doc.” Enjolras doesn’t quite have enough time to process the conversation before Bahorel’s arms are underneath him. 

“I can…” Enjolras doesn’t even get through the sentence before Bahorel shushes him. 

“Don’t waste your energy on dumb shit, dude. I’ve got this.” His voice is warm, as he gently lays Enjolras down on the bed that Bossuet had made. Immediately, Joly is placing a towel and then an ice pack over the wound. Enjolras lets out a hiss, his hand reaching out and grabbing Bahorel’s shirt. To his everlasting credit, Bahorel just lays down next to Enjolras, lets him fist his hand in his shirt, hoping the comfort takes away at least some of the pain. 

“Hey. Don’t go to sleep yet, E,” Joly says, running to the kitchen before returning with a glass and a straw. “You have to drink all of this before you sleep.” 

“Tired, Jolllly. Later,” Enjolras mumbles, but all he can do is make a noise of protest as Bahorel gently leans Enjolras against him so that he’s sitting up just enough. Then, the straw is forced right beneath his lips. “Not gonna. ’N don’ ‘eed a s’raw.” 

“You lost a lot of blood, knowing you you’re dehydrated, and you’re literally unable to form complete words. You need the straw, and you need to drink.” Joly’s voice is tired, but it has that edge to it that lets Enjolras know he’s not here to fuck around. “Open your mouth.” 

Enjolras just shakes his head, so Bahorel gently tips Enjolras’s head back, which opens his jaw beautifully. With no other option, Enjolras accepts the straw and drinks, Bahorel letting go of Enjolras’s head to rub comforting circles in his back. It takes a long while, and there’s a few points where Enjolras forgets what he’s doing or a breath hitches in a bad way and there’s sputtering. When the glass is finally empty, Enjolras’s muscles seem to melt into Bahorel, who’s warm and strong and _safe_. Bahorel, to Enjolras, is a home after months of shelters and benches, is the feeling of sleeping in a heated apartment, is warm food and being able to finally _let go_. 

When Enjolras’s hand finally goes lax, losing his grip on consciousness as his fingers lose their grip on Bahorel’s t-shirt, Bahorel doesn’t move. He just replaces the ice pack on Enjolras’s stomach and tries to warm up Enjolras’s cold skin.

:: ::

When Enjolras comes to, everything feels just a little bit blurrier, and uncomfortably warm. It takes an impossibly long time to wake up; it’s like something is holding him just under the edge of consciousness. His eyes refuse to remain open, and his ears just process the same comforting hum that he supposes are words, but he can’t quite puzzle out what they might be.

( _Can you hear me? E, can you hear me?_ )

All of a sudden, there’s a sharp, stabbing pain in Enjolras’s stomach. His eyes lurch open, and though he can barely manage to turn his head, he does so as much as he can before his stomach starts heaving and he feels something hot and heavy exploding from his chest out of his mouth. 

Then, there’s voices and hands, hauling him up, putting something beneath his mouth, holding his hair back, as Enjolras works his way through a few quick, shuddering gasping breaths. When it’s over, his breaths still feel like his lungs are surrounded by spikes, and he’s shaking. Now, there are hands lowering him back against something soft, hands wiping his mouth, something shoved between his lips. It’s hot, it’s so hot, and Enjolras can’t move. He sees faces and feels someone taking his fingers in their own, but he can’t even find the strength to turn his neck and figure out who it is. 

Slowly, voices fade in.

_He’s got a high fever. It’s definitely an infection… maybe something more._

_—That’s it. I’m calling Combeferre._

 

“I can’t…brea—I can’t breathe,” Enjolras whispers. His breaths are hard and shallow; he can hear the panting and he feels the sting of each and every one. 

“Hey. It’s going to be okay. Try to take slower, deeper breaths. It’s going to be okay, Enj.” He knows that voice, and he knows that it’s strong and it’s gruff but it’s okay. “Hang on for like five more minutes, okay?” 

Enjolras thinks he nods, but it stops making sense after that.

:: ::

When Combeferre and Courfeyrac barrel into their apartment, Enjolras’s fingers have just gone lax in Bahorel’s. Combeferre thinks he hears Joly rattling off medical information, but he can only see Enjolras’s head lolling to the side, can only see the unnatural color around the stitches. It’s like the world has stuttered in its orbit. Enjolras is hurt.

As soon as he goes to look closer at the wound, trying to gently peel Joly’s wrapping away from it, Enjolras lets out a strangled cry, his back arching off of the mattress. When he can finally see it clearly, he feels the heat coming from the area, and he feels Enjolras’s entire body tense, and he knows without looking that Courfeyrac’s hand is now locked in Enjolras’s iron grasp. 

“Call the hospital. Tell him we’re bringing him in, and what they should be prepared for,” Combeferre says, his voice full of rusted nails. 

Then, he turns to his best friend.

“Stay with me. E, don’t go to sleep. Stay awake.” That’s Courfeyrac’s voice, and his curly brown hair is doing its job of hiding the tears leaking off of his face as his head bows under the sudden weight of the situation. One of Enjolras’s shaking, cold hands is encompassed in both of his own, and Combeferre’s heart stumbles at the tenderness of the gesture. “You’re okay.” 

“Bahorel, Grantaire, we’re going to need you to carry him to the car. Try not to jostle him too much. Feuilly, grab a sheet from the cupboard. We need to get him there as fast as possible.” 

Everyone springs into action. 

When they’re finally at the ER, Enjolras starts convulsing. The rails on the stretcher are shaking with the force of the fit, Enjolras’s back arching high off of the mattress as he’s wheeled away. Combeferre wants to follow, but he’s stopped at the doors. He’s not on duty; it’s a conflict of interest. 

Combeferre forgets how to breathe easily.

:: ::

Enjolras isn’t aware of much, but his half-lidded eyes are watching bright lights flash by. He hears some sort of rattling that means whatever he’s in is rolling, and there’s buzzing and humming filling his ears. Something is pressed over his face and into his arm, and there are hands stopping him from trying to get it off. But they’re not the warm, calloused hands of Bahorel, or Joly’s nimble, thin hands; they’re cold and unfamiliar.

The buzzing clears for a second as he feels a bump, and he hears words, but it’s not a language he understands. Right before everything slides out of focus again, it hits him.

Hospital.

:: ::

They’re letting two of them see Enjolras before surgery. Without any question or deliberation, Combeferre and Courfeyrac follow the doctor, a close friend, back through the maze of hallways. They know why they’re letting them do this; he might not make it through. There’s too much scar tissue and he’s lost too much blood and the shock took too much of a toll and they waited too long.

“He’s half-conscious at best. On as many painkillers as we can give him, but it doesn’t cover everything,” she explains at the door. “You’ve got ten minutes.” With that, Courfeyrac just clutches Combeferre’s hand tightly and enters the room. Enjolras is shirtless, tubes and wires flowing out of him (or is it into him? Combeferre doesn’t know anymore), an oxygen mask secured firmly over his mouth and nose. There are dark circles under his eyes and he looks so thin, so pale, so fragile. 

Courfeyrac reaches out for Enjolras’s hand, gently grabbing the fingers and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Slowly, Enjolras turns his head to figure out what’s going on. When he sees it’s Courfeyrac, his face breaks out in a wide, unafraid grin. He lifts an uncoordinated hand to his face, trying to take this damn mask off so he can talk to his best friends, but Combeferre stops him with a light grip on his wrist, bringing the arm back down to the mattress. 

“Leave it. You need all the help you can get,” he says, his voice cracking as he sits at his best friend’s other side. 

Enjolras lets out a distressed noise in return. 

“Shh,” Courfeyrac says, his eyes welling with tears. “It’s okay, Enj. You’re going to be just fine.” In response, Enjolras grips his hand tighter. He wants to tell them that he’s sorry, that he knows he fucked up, but his thoughts aren’t put together enough to figure out how to do that. 

“Save your strength. You’ve got… look. It’s gonna get rough, but you can’t leave. You’ve gotta stay.” Combeferre’s voice cracks, and before he knows it he’s crying freely. Enjolras lets out another noise, his free hand searching for Combeferre’s, to squeeze it, to let him know that he’s here. 

The doctors and nurses are entering the room now, some stopping to put a comforting hand on their colleague’s shoulder. 

Combeferre places a kiss on Enjolras’s forehead.

Combeferre starts to crumble.

:: ::

“Okay. Count back from ten,” a voice somewhere to his left says, as they switch what mask is on Enjolras’s face.

“Ten…”

_Enjolras barely has time to drop his keys into the bowl before he’s bombarded with at least seven new faces._

_”Hey, you guys, this is that new roommate I was telling—“_

_But the words falter as Enjolras feels the sudden impact of arms thrown around him. Two people are hugging him tightly, and Enjolras can’t see who they are but he hears that they’re crying and they feel familiar, like he’s home._

_They’re Combeferre and Courfeyrac._

_Pieces inside of Enjolras that had long been buried under the scar tissue of newer, more pressing wounds rip themselves out and put themselves back into place. He’s found his best friends again._

_They haven’t forgotten him._

“Nine…”

_Enjolras is sleeping on a park bench trying to ignore how the fireworks sounds like gunshots. He doesn’t know how he’s fucked up so badly that this is where he is but he can’t avoid it. He’s got no money, no one, and nowhere to go. The noises cut into his ears and he just wants it to stop. He wants to be able to breathe easily again._

“Eight…”

_Enjolras is hugging his best friends as they all graduate high school. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are all smiles, so ready to go beyond this shitty fucking military hellhole their parents sent them to and on to greater things. Enjolras thinks that this is the last time he’s going to be truly happy. But he has to let them go._

Enjolras is out before he can get to seven.

:: ::

Exactly one day later, a wheelchair appears in the room. By some miracle that probably involved Combeferre and Joly and a metric buttload of support from their hospital friends, Enjolras isn’t currently drowning in debt. It helps that he’s actually a vet (Musichetta learns that asking a drugged Enjolras invasive, personal questions is the only time she’ll get a response), and that Combeferre is so well-liked by all of his superiors. The only condition is that he leaves as quickly as he can be feasibly taken care of by someone at home. That’s a condition Enjolras is thrilled about.

“I can walk,” Enjolras argues, but his face is pale and he’s so tired and his stomach hurts so fucking much that he knows he doesn’t have a full-fledged argument in him right now. Combeferre doesn’t even dignify it with a response, just helps the nurse bundle him into the chair. 

“Let’s get you home,” he says, his voice cracking as Enjolras tries to wiggle just a little bit, finding it impossible to move enough to get of the chair himself. Courfeyrac, for his part, is hovering, clutching the bag of medication like he’s afraid it’ll disappear. 

Once they get him outside, Bahorel is waiting with the van. He says nothing, but when it’s obvious that Enjolras is too weak to stand he picks him up without preamble, gently laying him across the backseat before climbing in next to him. Enjolras seems to curl into Bahorel, and his eyes start drifting closed before the car even starts moving. 

“How are you feeling, my man?” Bahorel asks, his hands absent playing with Enjolras’s curls. 

“S’ all good,” Enjolras slurs. “No more blood.” 

“It is not all good. You’ve got a long way to go,” Courfeyrac says, turning around to drive his point home. 

“I jus’ wanna go to sleep,” Enjolras argues. He doesn’t know it yet, but they’ve got Enjolras-watching shifts planned out for the next week; he’s not going to be left alone when the infection could come back or complications from the surgery could arise or five hundred other scary side-effects could appear. What Enjolras also doesn’t know is that he’s got a long talk ahead of him, trying to work out how this happened in the first place. Why he wanted to keep them out when he probably needed his best friends the most.

“Stay awake, buddy. You’ve gotta drink something when we get home,” Bahorel reminds Enjolras, tapping at his face a little. 

“‘M not thirsty,” he mumbles, curling into Bahorel’s warmth. “I’m cold.” 

“You’re already wearing my sweatshirt, fam. You don’t get all of my body heat,” he says, but he just gently pulls Enjolras closer, being ever-so-careful not to jostle the just-barely healing wound. 

“You’re not changing the subject, Enj. You’re going to drink and eat something when we get back.” Courfeyrac really leaves no room for argument, so Enjolras chooses to just close his eyes instead. Before anyone can argue with him, Enjolras is asleep. 

He’s woken up briefly by the feeling of floating, but when a rough bump makes him etch out a groan, there’s a voice shushing him, telling him to go back to sleep. Enjolras listens. 

 

“G’morning, sunshine.” Enjolras wakes up sandwiched between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, unaware of what time it actually is. “You hungry?” 

Slowly, Enjolras manages to pull himself up so his back is against the cushions of the sofa bed. One hand gently ghosts over the bandages, wincing at the pull in the stitches. Then, he nods a little. 

“Awesome. Bahorel broke the remote in the waiting room when it was on the Food Network, and now he’s a little bit obsessed. He’s way too excited to present his artistic creation,” Courfeyrac says, his smile wide and sleepy. 

“It’s just toast and apple juice. Don’t worry. Easy food,” Combeferre says once Enjolras’s face creases. 

“I’m not that hungry,” Enjolras says. “No offense, Bahorel,” he adds, because Bahorel is strutting into the room, toast artfully arranged on the plate. 

“Yeah, but you are in pain. And you can’t take your meds unless you eat something,” he says lightly, plopping down next to Enjolras. “Pickles misses you, by the way. Curled up in your work shirt last night.” He’s referencing the stray cat that just happens to also live with them, because Bahorel really cannot help himself. 

“I could just go back to sleep,” Enjolras mutters, but eats half of the toast and drinks all of the juice. He takes his meds and doesn’t complain because he remembers waking up, dazed and hurting, and feeling Courfeyrac clutch his hand so tightly his knuckles had gone white and seeing the dark circles and stress lines and red rims around their eyes. Enjolras knows that he did that to them. _He_ hurt them like that. 

When Bahorel suddenly gets up and leaves, Combeferre and Courfeyrac turn to Enjolras. 

“We need to talk, Enj,” Combeferre says, his hands grabbing both of Enjolras’s. Immediately, Enjolras’s heart beats just a little bit faster. 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras whispers. He ducks his head, hoping that if he can hide his face they won’t know what he’s thinking, or feeling. 

“Don’t apologize, E. Just listen, first.” Courfeyrac’s voice is warm, and he’s wrapping his arms around his friend, holding him close. He wants Enjolras, even though this is going to be hard for all of them, to feel safe. That’s always his priority. 

“We want to know why you didn’t want us to know you were hurt. Why you wouldn’t let Joly call us, even when it got bad.” Combeferre says the words slowly, trying desperately to keep his voice from shaking. 

“I didn’t want to worry you.” Behind the words, Combeferre hears what Enjolras is actually trying to say. And it feels like it’s him who just got stabbed in the gut; Enjolras places so little emphasis on his own well-being that he would rather bleed out in an alley than tell his best friends he’s not okay. And Combeferre wants to kill that part of him with however many hugs it takes, to let Enjolras know that it’s okay to let people in, to feel happy and safe and to _trust_ something. Even if it’s not him. 

“You’re not worrying us, E. We want you to be okay, and we want to help you when you’re not.” Courfeyrac’s voice cracks, and he holds onto E just that much tighter. 

“But I’m not okay. I’m never okay.” Enjolras can’t stop the words from flowing out of his mouth, or the tears that are leaking from his eyes. 

“What do you mean?” Now Courfeyrac is crying, too. As he guides Enjolras’s head to lay on his chest, Enjolras can’t hold it in any longer and he’s sobbing. He’s sobbing because of everything he hasn’t told him, or maybe because of everything that he has. He’s hurting and he’s tired, and everything is too much. 

“I can’t ask you to deal with this. You had a life, a good life, and I… I…” But Enjolras is choking over all of the things he can’t say. It’s like those poison seeds from all of those years ago have grown into beautiful flowers in his lungs. 

“We want you here, E. Everything got so much better when we found you again. We love you, and you are not making anything worse. You make us better.” Combeferre can’t hold back the tears anymore, and now he’s the one who’s holding Enjolras. Their foreheads are pressed together and if Combeferre could will Enjolras to know how strongly he loves him, he would. 

“I don’t. I’m a mess.” Enjolras’s breaths are barely gasps now, because this much emotion makes his chest burn and his stomach twist itself around the stitches. “I fight and I’m broke and I’m angry and—“ 

“You’re kind, you’re wonderful, you’re an amazing friend. Let us help you.” Courfeyrac’s voice is desperate, and now all three of them are sitting together. And, dammit, Courfeyrac is not letting Enjolras out of this sandwich until he knows he’s loved. 

“I don’t believe you.” Enjolras barely can say the words around the tight grip his friends have on him, on the tight grip the stitches have on his stomach. 

“It’s okay. Just know it’s true. And we’re here.” 

It’s true. They all cry some more, and when Enjolras is spent, they just hold him tightly. It’s like the parts of him the stitches tried to force back together are slowly working their way back to where they should be—the tissue is starting to scar over, leaving something new and raw and soft and pink over his heart. There’s a warmth he can’t explain that has nothing to do with Bahorel’s sweatshirt or his friends’ entangled limbs. 

Enjolras exhales.

It feels just a bit easier.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the lack of posts, lately. I just started college and it's amazing and fun but I have almost no time. I still have something in the works. Also, thank you to screwsfallout for helping me actually finish this thing. Let me know what you think, here or at thoseunheard.tumblr.com?
> 
> Charlotte


End file.
